


uncharted territory beyond mortifyin: eridan/feferi, karkat

by coldhope



Series: HHCOD fills [19]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, HHCOD fill, Hurt/Comfort, heatstroke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldhope/pseuds/coldhope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HHCOD/AHCOD fill story. Eridan has reasons for wearing a black sweater and heavy scarf in the middle of summer; they're not very <i>good</i> reasons, of course, but he has them. Karkat is the goddamn master of self-castigation. And Feferi has a bomb-ass hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uncharted territory beyond mortifyin: eridan/feferi, karkat

maiden-roar asked eridan-hc-on-demand: 

(humanstuck?) Eridan insists on wearing his scarf and sweater out in the summer sun and faints from heatstroke. Cue Karkat/Feferi fussing and scolding.

~

When you pull up in front of Eridan's place they're already outside, waiting. Feferi's sundress is a shade of pink you could have done without, but you kind of dig the enormous floppy hat she's wearing. It makes her look like a jellyfish. You tell her this, and she giggles. Eridan scowls. 

"...Ampora, the fuck are you wearing?"

"Armani." Black sweater--literally, in this heat--and one of his stupid hipster scarves. Scarf weather it is decidedly not. 

"We're going to the _fair_ , remember? Which is largely outside? And it's pushing 99 in the shade? Feferi, make your dumbass boyfriend go put on some normal-person clothes, jesus christ."

"I tried to! He's stubborn."

"I'm soigné," Eridan corrects. "Ain't surprised you fail to understand the importance a dressin well, Kar. The addition a my presence to this little group just about manages to raise the overall level a elegance to the bare fuckin minimum. We're gonna be late."

"Whose fault is that? Seriously, take off the goddamn scarf, you're gonna die."

"Your concern is noted." He smirks at you; you flip him off; you think, okay, well, fuck it, he wants to melt, he can melt on his own damn terms. "--I call shotgun."

"Nuh-uh," Feferi says, giving him a playful shove. "I called it earlier when you were still dithering over which scarf to wear, remember?"

"That didn't count and you know it." 

You sigh and bonk your head on the steering wheel. It is going to be a very long day.

~

The sun bakes down from a colorless midsummer sky, the horizon white-hazed with humidity. Mirages ripple on the concrete of the parking lot. Even on the walk from the car to the entrance of the fairgrounds, sweat has begun to trickle down your back; the very thought of wearing anything heavier than a t-shirt is physically repellent. You notice that Eridan's hairdo has not yet wilted, but it's only a matter of time. His face is shining with sweat.

~

Feferi is nattering away a mile a minute, pausing every now and then for mouthfuls of blue-raspberry snowball. "--and so then I went to see the Jacob's sheep, they're the spotty ones, you know, and there were _lambs_ , they were so sweet and tiny and they had little woolly tails still and I'm seriously thinking of maybe changing my concentration from small-animal to livestock because oh my god, everyone and their auntie does small-animal stuff, I want to get to work with cows and sheep and pigs and..."

Eridan is no longer following you, and both of you notice this almost simultaneously. He's been trudging along behind you and Feferi without a word since you all met up after exploring the fairgrounds, which isn't really all that like him, but you've now left him several paces back. You turn to look at him. Oh, fuck.

He's standing still, looking very preoccupied. Dust and straw have rendered his stupid goddamn sweater and scarf less elegant than he might have wished, but he hasn't made any attempt to brush it away. He's gone very, very pale, and is blinking hard behind his glasses, as if trying to get his vision to clear. Feferi hurries back. "Eridan? Eridan, are you okay?"

"Feel weird," he says in a little strengthless voice, listing noticeably to port, and then before either of you can steady him his eyes flutter closed and he collapses in a completely inelegant heap.

You say a number of bad words. So does Feferi, and both of you are kneeling beside him, ignoring the gasps and exclamations from all the other people who saw him fall. Someone's calling for the EMT guys; somewhere a walkie-talkie crackles.

Eridan is lying very still, his eyelashes absurdly black against the gross pallor of his skin. He isn't sweating. He's warm to the touch. You remember something about that being important, but, fuck, first-aid class was a very long time ago and you can't recall if it's sweating or not sweating that's worse, and Feferi is pushing back his damp hair and you should have refused to bring him in that goddamn getup, you let this happen, you didn't try hard enough to stop him being a fucking idiot, you didn't notice he was getting sick, you are the _worst friend_. It is totally you. 

"It's my fault," Feferi is saying. "I didn't pay enough attention, I should've stopped him--"

"It is so not your fault," you snap. "It's his, because he is a self-destructive asshole with a flair for the dramatic, anyone with an ounce of sense would never have insisted on dressing up like it's October to come to the goddamn fair." It's interesting how your brain compartmentalizes.

She's about to argue when the medics arrive and gently push her out of the way. You put your arm around her as they do their work.

It doesn't take long for them to bring him round, and Feferi kneels beside him and takes his hand--muted _awwww_ s from the onlookers--whereupon he spoils the moment by throwing up noisily. That's Ampora for you, you think: highly dramatic, in exactly the wrong way.

~

Later, much later, after he's told the paramedics very firmly that he's refusing transportation, you and Feferi support him back to the car. He's spent the past several hours being rehydrated and cooled down, and the embarrassment of having fainted and been sick in public almost covers the embarrassment of having the real reason for the sweater revealed. The costume he has to wear for the local theater company's production of _Midsummer Night's Dream_ was apparently cleaned last time with something that disagreed with his skin, and his chest and arms are covered with a blotchy rash. 

"Why didn't you _say_?" you demand, somewhat more forcefully than you'd intended. "You could have told us what the fuck was wrong, instead of giving yourself a goddamn heatstroke trying to hide it. Or better yet, we could have gone to the fair another time, did you even consider that?" And why didn't you get the goddamn truth out of him yourself this morning, you should've tried harder to get him to go change, _fuck_.

He looks at you, oddly, for a moment, then shrugs. "Fef wanted to go." 

"I cannot _believe_ you, Eridan Ampora," the lady in question snaps. "Sometimes you are just the most incredibly illogical person I've ever met. Of course I wanted to go, but not if it was going to make you sick! And why didn't you tell me about the damn costume thing?"

"Cause it was dumb? And embarrassin. I think I actually reached the fuckin saturation level a embarrassment though, we're out in the uncharted territory beyond mortifyin at this point. Kar, can we go home?"

"Promise not to hurl in my car?"

"I'll do my best."

In fact he goes to sleep, instead, or at least you think he does. He's still very pale, and frankly you're not entirely sure he shouldn't be going to the damn hospital; you keep looking at him in the rearview mirror and thinking again that you are totally the worst of friends. Feferi notices you doing it, and reaches over to pat your knee. "Would you relax, Karkat? It's not your fault, the whole thing's a total mess but it has nothing to do with you."

Eridan's eyes in the mirror are open, watching you; you flinch, put your attention back where it belongs, on the actual road. You're not convinced. 

You're not convinced he's really okay, either, and when you get to his apartment building you help Feferi get him inside--and you don't leave at once. He's groggy but perks up enough to complain about the T-shirt he's wearing, an emergency purchase from the nearest stall at the fair: it says FARMERS DO IT HARDER. The red blotches of the rash down his arms, plus the fact that the shirt is three sizes too big, conspire to make him look absolutely and utterly pitiful. He's still looking at you with that unreadable expression; you wonder what the hell is going on behind it.

Feferi is rattling around in the kitchen. When she comes out to join you she has a popsicle in each hand: one is grape, the other cherry, which she hands to you. You reflect, not for the first time, that she has a hell of an eye for detail. She sits on the edge of the couch beside Eridan and pets his hair. "Here, they said you had to keep drinking fluids, I figure popsicles count." 

"You're a gem," he tells her. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" You flop into a chair, looking at the pair of them, suddenly very tired. 

"Fuckin everythin up and ruinin the day for you guys?"

You groan. "Eridan?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we just once, just this once, not do the I'm So Terrible And Everything Is My Fault dance? Please? For me?"

He slurps his popsicle. "Only if that's a universal edict, Kar."

"The hell does that mean?" Sometimes he is unsettlingly perceptive and, what's more, accurate. Damn him. 

"You're the goddamn master a self-castigation and you know it," he says, adopting a didactic tone. "You beat yourself up all the time about shit. Sometimes you even do it out loud. With gestures. Plus in this case it's indisputable that this is completely and utterly my fault, so don't tell me to quit it unless you quit too."

You follow that, patiently, to its conclusion, and blink. "Um."

Feferi smiles to herself, and goes on stroking Eridan's hair. Silence fills up the room, but it's a companionable sort of silence, and not one you feel compelled to break.


End file.
